


(I'm an) Animal

by pastelfeathers



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Catboy, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 23:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14271810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelfeathers/pseuds/pastelfeathers
Summary: “No, hold up, hold up,” says N’Jadaka with a disbelieving laugh, “I ain’t got my answer yet. Are you actually sitting on the throne with cat ears and a tail right now?”With great dignity, T’Challa says, “They are panther ears.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original post by [starawr](http://starawr.tumblr.com/post/172153817153/just-wanna-say-its-a-fucking-tragedy-that-no-one).
> 
> Beta read by the lovely baetchalla, sweet-ice-perfume and nobunyaaga on tumblr, thank you for your encouragement, edits and comments (this story wouldn't be coherent without you guys)! :)

****T’Challa is never going to help test any of Shuri’s experiments ever again.

She had called him to the lab to try on the Black Panther necklace, claiming that she had made an adjustment.

Only, immediately after he settled it around his neck, T’Challa had felt dizzy. When the mild throbbing in his temples continued to intensify, he’d hurriedly taken off the revised necklace.

Shuri had been confused by his reaction, having tested the adjusted necklace on herself and several of the other technicians with no side effects. However, she took back the necklace all the same, promising to conduct more tests.

T’Challa had waved off her concern and stumbled unsteadily back to his room, hoping that sleep would lessen his nausea.

Only, it appears to be worse this morning, the throbbing in his head compounding with a sharp pain in his lower back.

What’s more, there is now a shrill ringing in his ears.

T’Challa flicks his ears irritably.

He stops, feeling oddly puzzled.

He is sure that he has flicked his ears, just as he is confident that human ears are not capable of this movement.

He reaches for the side of his face and pats it once.

Then again.

Subsequently, he panics because his hand met smooth skin, no ears, or even anything that remotely resembles a human ear.

His tail lashes in agitation.

T’Challa bolts up in bed and twists around sharply, his brain desperately needing to confirm if his sensory organs are working properly.

“By Bast,” he breathes out when he catches sight of a very realistic looking black tail, then hesitates as a stray thought strikes him.

No.

It can’t be.

He reaches up and awkwardly pats around his head.

His hand meets soft fur the same time his ears inform his senses that yes, he has found them again.

He freezes.

For a moment, T’Challa debates not getting out of bed. Surely no one would blame him for taking a sabbatical when he has obviously lost his mind.

That thought in mind, he flops back into bed.

Only, now that he is aware of it, the feeling of his tail keeps jarring him out of any attempt to fall back asleep.

What’s more, he finds himself thinking about his initial agenda for the day, meetings to attend, projects to oversee, training to be done, budgets to be discussed and newly found cousins to track down, and after a mental rundown of his duties, T’Challa concludes he really cannot afford to take an off day.

Not when he has just been crowned King of Wakanda.

With great reluctance, T’Challa gets out of bed and trudges over to the washroom, deciding to just accept the strangeness for today.

“Bast,” he sighs again when he finally sees himself in the mirror.

His ears have migrated up and rounded, resembling that of a panther. He turns around to behold his new tail which was, unfortunately, still there. Under his watchful eye, it swishes once, as if waving a shy hello.

Even his eyes, T’Challa was dismayed to see, appear to have been altered. He leans in close to the mirror, scrutinizing them with a small frown.

They look almost golden in the soft morning light, with slitted pupils which are hard to pass off as anything but cat-like.

He opens his mouth to find his incisors have sharpened and are now pointed, as are his nails, though the latter are much less noticeable.

Outside, he hears the soft murmurs of the Dora Milaje as they switch posts, his ears swiveling towards the sound to better catch the words.

T’Challa is both amazed and dismayed to find that he can actually make out what the Dora Milaje outside his room are saying, meaning whatever this was is not only a cosmetic change to his appearance but an internal change as well.

Staring at his appearance in the mirror, T’Challa decides this was not the start of a good day.

 

\---

 

To her credit, Shuri manages a full five seconds of wide-eyed silence before she bursts into laughter.

“Shuri,” T’Challa begins, feeling glad that he had the foresight to call her into his chambers with the kimoyo beads and that the Dora Milaje had not elected to escort her in, only shut the door quietly behind her.

The start of a headache is beginning making itself known in his temples.

“Glory to Bast,” she manages to get out, “you have ears! And a tail! Oh, brother, this is a brilliant disguise. I love it, no one will know what to say, how did you even get the tail and ears to move?” She reaches out, attempting to catch hold of his tail.

“I woke up with them attached to me,” T’Challa says wearily, even as his tail twitches and moves out of her inquisitive reach, curling up and winding defensively around his wrist.

“What,” Shuri says, eyes growing wide, all traces of humor gone from her voice. She tries again to reach out for his tail, slower this time.

T’Challa tenses when she carefully pets his tail, but the tension soon dissipates, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to-

He catches her hand and moves it away from his tail.

“Does it hurt?”

T’Challa forces a smile. “Just strange,” he says, ashamed of the lie but also unwilling to admit that he had been seconds away from outright purring at her careful petting.

“So you can feel it?” Shuri’s mouth takes on a downward turn.

T’Challa nods reluctantly. “I was hoping you could help me investigate.”

“Sit,” she says, inclining her head towards his bed.

T’Challa does so dutifully. Together, they go through his symptoms, from the obvious physical changes to the less obvious internal changes. They quickly determine that his hearing is more sensitive now and that his new appendages are not comfortable with being tucked in or under clothing.

No chance of hiding the ears and tail then.

As they progress, Shuri’s face appears more and more torn between fascination and guilt.

T’Challa places a hand on her arm the next time she moves closer to prod at him. “This will be resolved,” he reassures gently.

She makes a face at him, utterly unbefitting of a princess. “I do not like it,” she mutters, “this is probably why you felt sick yesterday. I should have known better.”

“No,” T’Challa refutes sternly, “you could not have predicted this.”

Shuri gently touches his left ear, and it twitches under her hand. “But I have made matters worse for you,” she says, eyes troubled, “we still haven’t found Klaue or Stevens, and now this.”

“Are you saying this does not suit me?” T’Challa teases, trying to liven up her spirits. He flashes her a peek at his newly fanged teeth and is heartened when she breaks into a reluctant smile.

“Brother,” she complains, but there is a new resolution in her eyes. “I will look into this,” she promises then hesitates, “what will you do?”

T’Challa presses his lips together.

“There is nothing else to do.”

 

\---

 

The Dora Milaje and the council react with varying degrees of confusion and curiosity, but after T’Challa explains the situation, they readily accept it for what it is. Vibranium is odd, and between herbs that provide the power of Bast and technology that allows for miraculous healing, panther ears and tail are hardly the strangest thing to occur in Wakanda’s long history.

Though it is definitely within top three.

The oldest of the council, an elderly woman with the eyes of a bird of prey, leans over to him after he sits down and says quietly ‘Bast has blessed you, child.’

T’Challa offers her a small smile, acknowledging her attempt at comforting him even though the day’s events feel the furthest from a blessing.

His day gets worse from there.

They receive news that Klaue is dead, and Erik Stevens ( _cousin,_ T’Challa’s mind reminds him guiltily) is on his way.

T’Challa mentally sighs when the man in question steps into the council room.

Of course N'Jadaka would drop in today of all days.

He contemplates slouching into the throne for the briefest of seconds, but resolutely steels his spine and maintains his regal posture.

“Spe-”

“Okay I just,” N’Jadaka interrupts, he tries to point with his hands but being shackled, manages only an awkward wiggling movement, “Are y’all for real? You guys elected a furry for a king?”

T’Challa feels his right eye twitch and tries to summon patience, “Why have you-”

“No, hold up, hold up,” says N’Jadaka with a disbelieving laugh, “I ain’t got my answer yet. Are you actually sitting on the throne with cat ears and a tail right now?”

With great dignity, T’Challa says, “They are panther ears.”

N’Jadaka gets a funny look on his face, then visibly regroups. He mutters something too low for T’Challa to normally hear, but with his new unfortunate enhancement, he finds himself processing the words without issue.

“God damn cat ears is what it is.”

T’Challa frowns. “State your purpose.”

“No, you know what, I can’t focus with you being all panther-ed up and shit,” N’Jadaka says, his eyes narrow, “if you ain’t gonna take me seriously, then I’mma take my gift and go.”

At the mention of Klaue, T’Challa’s ears press back, and he feels his tail lash angrily against the chair.

Unfortunately, this did not serve to intimidate the other man.

“Really?” N’Jadaka mocks, “two billion people all over the world are suffering and y’all here making life-like cat ears? What is this, some kind of kinky bedroom shit?”

Someone gasps.

T’Challa stands up and stalks forward, hearing Okoye move to flank him on the right. “You will hold your tongue.”

“Or what?” challenges N’Jadaka, “You gonna scratch me with your widdle claws?”

It is a surprise to everyone when T’Challa growls, the noise sounding less like a man and more like a beast, but the other man rallies quickly.

N’Jadaka smirks at T’Challa, baring his teeth. “Did I hurt the pretty kitty’s feelings?”

There is a pause.

N’Jadaka seems to realize the oddness of the adjective used because he scowls. “Pampered housecat is what you are,” he spits out, “you have no idea what this world is capable of, what I am capable of.”

“I am aware of your capabilities,” T’Challa murmurs, stepping into the other’s space, “and the only reason I don’t kill you where you stand is because I know who you are.”

“I told you, it’s tough to take you seriously with that cat shit on,” N’Jadaka says and with a speed that belies his years of training, twists his body so he can grab hold of T’Challa’s tail, which had been pressed against T’Challa’s left leg.

They both freeze.

“What the fuck,” says N’Jadaka, “is this real?!”

 

\---

 

In the ensuing chaos, T’Challa makes a note of two important things:

a) his tail is very very sensitive

b) his cousin has the same amount of diplomacy as a rampaging rhinoceros

 

—-

 

“This is a bit excessive,” N’Jadaka says. He is chained to the floor, a set of kimoyo beads ensuring he is unable to move more than a few feet away from the simple cot.

T’Challa is alone, having asked the Dora Milaje to stand guard outside of the man’s new cell.

Okoye had given him a considering glance but ultimately did as asked without comment.

“Why are you here?”

“Didn’t anybody teach you how to make small talk?”

T’Challa frowns internally, then outwardly sighs when his tail stiffens in insult, effectively giving away his feelings.

N’Jadaka notices this. “Did I offend your kitty sensibilities again?” he scoffs, though T’Challa notices the man’s gaze appears to track his tail’s movement with almost a...hungry stare?

He clears his throat.

“What do you want?”

“I want the throne,” N’Jadaka looks away from his tail and says sharply. “You don’t deserve to be King any more than your daddy did.”

“What would you know,” T’Challa asks, irritated despite himself.

“I know I found my pops dead with panther claw marks in his chest,” says N’Jadaka darkly, “Question is, what do you know? Y’all been sitting here like the pampered cats y’all are, while the rest of us strays had to fight for survival.”

T’Challa’s ears press back instinctively.

“Did I say something you don’t wanna hear?” N’Jadaka taunts with a mean-spirited smile, “You gonna stomp off in a fluff?”

“The expression,” T’Challa corrects with the last bit of patience he has, “is stomp off in a huff.”

“I know what I said.” N’Jadaka smirks at him.

_An impossible man_ , T’Challa thinks to himself.

“So you wish to challenge me,” he questions quietly instead, having deduced where the other man’s logic is going.

“Yeah, I do,” affirms N’Jadaka, “you don’t deserve the throne.”

“Neither do you,” refutes T’Challa with a low growl, “you who would bring war and instability upon Wakanda with little thought of the lives you would be upending.”

“I brought back Klaue,” N’Jadaka snarls back, up on his feet now and shuffling forward, so he is right in T’Challa’s face, “while you sat here and grew cute little kitty ears.”

To add further insult, the other man leans in and tilts his head up so he can blow a warm breath against T’Challa’s ears.

T’Challa tries to keep them still, but his ears appear to have a mind of their own because they twitch in response, disturbed by the barely there sensation.

He does not fully understand the other man’s insistence on calling him pretty or cute or kitty, but he suspects the terms are meant in a mocking manner.

Not for the first time, T’Challa wishes that N’Jadaka had not picked today of all days to finally visit Wakanda.

N’Jadaka’s eyes are dark and heavily lidded when he looks back.

“Not so tough, are ya kitty?”

T’Challa growls again, except this time, he feels the reverberation of the sound throughout his entire body. He opens his mouth then winces when he manages to cut his lip somehow with his teeth, which are lengthier and sharper than he remembered them being this morning.

_Did his teeth lengthen?_

“Bast,” he hisses, tongue darting out to lick at the small nick.

“Fuck,” says N’Jadaka, with an audible tremor in his voice.

T’Challa looks up warily, only to swallow back a yelp when he finds N’Jadaka impossibly closer, right before his lips are caught in a bruising kiss.

It is single-handedly the most intense kiss T’Challa has ever had.

N’Jadaka’s mouth is insistent and warm, nothing like the gentle, reverent kisses he shared with Nakia or other lovers in the past. T’Challa feels a flush creep up his neck, especially when the other man nips at his bottom lip with his golden incisors.

T’Challa stumbles back.

“What are you doing,” he gets out, eyes wide and heart thumping.

N’Jadaka licks his lips. “That your first kiss?” the other man asks with an arched eyebrow, annoyingly at ease, “or did the cat just get your tongue?”

For a moment, T’Challa stays silent, still baffled by the turn of events that led up to the kiss.

He is sure N’Jadaka is aware of their familial tie, and nothing in their encounters thus far makes T’Challa think the other man is interested--

He pauses and rethinks the last thought.

“Are you,” T’Challa begins slowly, unable to reconcile the fact that he has to have this conversation, “could you possibly like the ears and tail?”

N’Jadaka’s face does a funny spasm.

“No.”

It is not nearly as convincing as either of them would like to believe.

 

\---

 

“You cannot lock him up forever.”

T’Challa turns from the window he had been gazing out of with a mild flush.

He is suddenly certain that his mother can tell that he had been thinking about the kiss.

Which he had only been thinking about because it had occurred so recently, not at all because there’s a strange heat in the bottom of his stomach at the thought of the other man’s mouth.

Ramonda watches him with a steady gaze and narrows her eyes thoughtfully when T’Challa clears his throat, feeling all too exposed under her gaze.

He is fiercely glad that his newfound ears and tail cannot give away his embarrassment, not that his mother has ever needed any help in seeing right through him.

“I know,” T’Challa says instead, brushing off his original train of thought, “but he is too blinded by vengeance to see reason.”

“That much I can see,” she agrees and waits him out, raising both eyebrows in a silent question.

T’Challa gazes back at her evenly, and after a few seconds, she concedes to his stubbornness and moves on.

They both know that she will be there when he is ready to speak about what troubles him.

Instead, she holds out a familiar looking necklace and ring. “W’Kabi gave it to me,” she says with a small downturn of her lips.

“The council is aware?”

“Not yet,” she hesitates, “is he-”

“Yes,” T’Challa confirms quietly, saving her the trouble of saying out loud what they both suspect, “he is of our blood.”

She closes her eyes. The only indication of her inner turmoil is the tight grip she has on the ring.

“We must let him go,” she murmurs at last.

T’Challa frowns, “but mama, his mind is filled with hate, if he is to fight me-”

“He fights because he knows of no other path.”

T’Challa stays quiet.

“We cannot let him have his way,” Ramonda says, eyes open again, clear and bright, looking every inch like the Queen she is, “we will offer him understanding and see if we can not chase away the darkness.”

T’Challa thinks of the kiss, of how even in this intimate act, his cousin had approached it like a battle to be won.

He is not sure N’Jadaka wants to leave the darkness.

“And if we can not?”

“We must,” she says, resolution clear in her voice.

T’Challa lowers his gaze to the ring in her hand.

“If we fail,” he asks quietly, “would you still not have me accept his challenge?”

Ramonda shakes her head slightly, “it would be unwise.”

“You are worried I will lose,” T’Challa replies, feeling his tail curl protectively against his leg, sensing his sudden shift in mood.

“No,” she refuses gently, gliding forward so she can place her hand on his arm, a silent show of support. “I am worried that he will be lost.”

“But he is already lost,” T’Challa points out, aware that he is being significantly less receptive to his mother’s counsel than usual but unable to acquiesce without voicing his concerns.

Something about N’Jadaka sets all of his senses on edge and gets under his skin like no other.

T’Challa does not yet understand if he sees the other as a threat (or as a regretful mistake from his father’s reign that now needs to be rectified).

The man moves like a predator on the precipice of starvation, willing and able to do anything and everything to see some blood.

Yet, there is something else there too.

A deep-rooted belief that the world can be saved, even if it’s through fire and pain, as opposed to inclusion and sharing.

T’Challa does not understand how N'Jadaka can claim to be a champion for the disadvantaged yet still be willing to lead Wakanda into a hopeless war, which would inevitably bring ruin to their people.

He is jolted out of his thoughts when his mother pats him lightly on the cheek, “No one is lost on purpose, he only needs to be shown another path.”

 

\---

 

“You ready to fight me like a man?”

N’Jadaka is slouching against the wall, and he would have looked relaxed if not for the sharpness of his gaze.

T’Challa presses his lips tightly, deciding to ignore the comment in favour of settling in, though he still cannot help the angry whip of his tail. The instinctive reactions towards the other man’s innate sense of danger is frustrating, T’Challa does not normally have to work this hard to maintain his calm composure.

He can’t help but feel as if his new features are getting the better of him.

“I wished to return your ring,” he says in lieu of answering the other man’s question.

N’Jadaka eyes him suspiciously then sneers, “wouldn’t it be better to keep it? Then you can be like your pops and bury the truth beneath a throne of lies.”

T’Challa frowns sharply. “You are of our blood,” he says evenly, trying to control the instinctive anger from the careless mention of his father’s name, “I would not take your birthright from you.” He holds out the ring and continues, “and I would not deprive you of the gift your father left you.”

“I see,” grunts N’Jadaka as he snatches the ring back, “just like how I shouldn’t deprive you of the throne your daddy left you?”

“It is not a gift, but a responsibility to be king,” T’Challa corrects, unable to help recalling and repeating the words his father has once murmured to him.

“Bull fucking shit,” N’Jadaka snaps. “Don’t try to high road me cuz. It don’t work like that.”

T’Challa’s ears flatten against his head, angry again despite himself. “I am trying to converse with you,” he says sharply.

“Nah,” N’Jadaka gives his ears a quick glance, before he gives a harsh laugh, “y’all think I don’t understand what’s happening?”

T’Challa frowns at him.

“You’re scared,” N’Jadaka begins calmly, eyes hooded and a sardonic twist to his lips. “Because you and I both know, that with cute little kitty features like you have now, you gon’ be in a real disadvantage if we fight.”

There is a certain truth in that.

N’Jadaka pauses, then continues with a faux sense of nonchalance, “But how about this. Because I’m a generous guy, I’mma offer you a deal.”

T’Challa feels himself tense, anticipating that he is not going to like whatever conditions the man is willing to propose.

N’Jadaka pushes himself off the floor and moves until he is at the boundary of his chains.

After a second, T’Challa mirrors the movement, striding forward until they are face to face again, reminiscent of their first meeting in the council room.

And when N’Jadaka last kissed him.

His tail whips sharply to the side.

N’Jadaka follows the movement avidly.

“Let me offer you a deal,” he repeats, eyes still trained on T’Challa’s tail, “I’ll let you talk at me, for as long as you want, to convince me that you should remain king.”

T’Challa eyes the other man. “This does not sound like a very good deal for you,” he notes, wary of the other’s intentions.

N’Jadaka flashes a fanged smile at him and leans in close.

“In return,” he continues, “you loosen these chains, your Highness. I ain’t into kinky bondage shit.”

T’Challa nods slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“And,” N’Jadaka’s smile widens, “I get to do whatever I want with you.”

 

\---

 

“You are letting him free?”

T’Challa’s tail taps rhythmically against the examination table as he frowns back at Shuri.

“There is no other way,” he says.

She gives him a disbelieving stare. “This man killed Klaue, is a foreign spy and-”

“Shuri,” says T’Challa, raising a hand.

“No,” she snaps back, eyes worried, “I have spoken to Mr. Ross and gone through the international databases. He is dangerous. He deserted his own team in-”

“He is our cousin,” T’Challa interrupts.

She gapes at him.

Then she reaches out to smack him hard on the arm.

“This is not a joke brother. He is a maniac and should not be freed!”

T’Challa looks back at her evenly, letting his silence speak for him.

Shuri’s face goes ashen after a few seconds.

“But how?” she whispers, “uncle N’Jobu was killed in a War Dogs mission.”

“I do not know,” T’Challa admits.

There is a pause.

After a moment, she moves so she can sit next to him, her face troubled.

T’Challa’s tail unconsciously curls around her and the gesture brings a weak smile to her face.

“You are getting better at controlling them,” she comments softly, petting his tail with a gentle hand.

T’Challa stays silent, he does not have the heart to tell her that, much like everything else that has happened in recent days, the movement had been out of his control.

“Nothing in my data explains why this has happened,” Shuri confesses guiltily, “I have looked through all the notes and cannot find a single lead.”

She makes a frustrated noise, “I have even looked over the data from the brief exposure you had to the necklace, and aside from an elevated heartbeat, there were no other medical outliers.”

“Perhaps it is not science which created them,” T’Challa muses, more to himself than anything else. “You have done your best,” he continues and nudges her slumped shoulders, “who are we to question the blessing of Bast?”

“I do not know how the ears and tail are anything but a burden,” Shuri grouses back.

T’Challa clears his throat as, unbidden, an image of N’Jadaka’s hungry gaze comes to mind and he finds himself recalling the other man’s bargain terms. He still thinks himself mad for accepting the deal, but he also cannot imagine how horribly the situation would have gone if N’Jadaka had not been distracted by his panther features during their first encounter.

Silence envelopes them again.

Shuri is still, having stopped petting his tail while she had been talking.

“Why did father never tell us about uncle N’Jobu or our cousin?” she eventually asks, so softly that T’Challa’s ears swivel to catch it properly.

T’Challa does not know the answer.

N’Jadaka’s words seem to imply that their father had been aware of the other man’s existence.

But why would T’Chaka have left their cousin alone in the world?

What happened to their uncle?

None of it made any sense.

“I do not know,” he says eventually, “but I will find out little sister.”

“And I will keep looking into this,” she says, petting his tail one last time. Shuri pauses, then gives him a cheeky grin, “though perhaps you wish to keep them until Nakia comes back?”

“Incorrigible,” T’Challa admonishes, but at least she is smiling again.

 

\---

 

The day goes by quickly. Before long, it is afternoon and T’Challa finds himself standing in front of N’Jadaka’s new room.

Which is essentially a cell but with better furnishing.

“Leave us,” he says.

“My King,” Okoye starts, a frown already on her face, “he is unchained and dangerous.”

T’Challa gives her a reassuring smile, or tries to, “he has given me his word.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I will not ask again,” he says placidly.

“We will be outside,” she replies, face unconvinced but unwilling to go against his orders. She strikes the ground with her spear and falls into stance amongst the two other of the Dora Milaje.

T’Challa raises his hand to knock, then rethinking the action, just pushes the door open.

He immediately regrets not knocking when he is greeted by the sight of a shirtless N'Jadaka, sweat running down the broad expanse of his back as he does yet another push up.

“N’Ja-” T’Challa starts, then stops and stares at the bumped skin exposed to his gaze. He swallows and turns to ensure the door closes behind him.

“Seriously?” N’Jadaka says when T’Challa turns back, he is standing now but still shirtless.

It is a decidedly unwelcomed, but nonetheless distracting sight.

“It’s Erik,” the man says with a roll of his eyes.

“Erik,” greets T’Challa.

“You here to spin me your bullshit?”

“I am here for our discussion yes,” T’Challa corrects as his ears pull back slightly in annoyance. He looks up from the other man’s chest, still curious about the raised marks, to see Erik giving him a thoughtful glance.

“Well maybe I want my part of the deal first,” the other man challenges, stalking over with a slight leer.

“Maybe,” Erik says once he is closer, “I want to see the pretty kitty mewl.”

T’Challa glares at him, “if I have your word to listen to reason.”

“Oh I’ll listen,” breathes out Erik with a laugh, and surges against him so T’Challa is pinned against the door.

“Now stay quiet,” Erik murmurs right before he kisses T’Challa.

It is just as intense as the last one, even more so when the other man reaches around to grab hold of T’Challa’s tail and gives it a firm stroke.

Unable to help himself, T’Challa shudders, feeling his knees weaken.

Fuck, he’d forgotten about how sensitive his tail was.

“You like that?” Erik growls against his mouth, then moves so he can press a brief kiss to T’Challa’s neck, “you gonna meow for me, kitty?”

“What,” T’Challa rasps out, “is your fascination with me being a cat?”

Erik huffs a sharp snicker against his skin and gives T’Challa’s tail another confident stroke, sending a wave of heat up T’Challa’s spine. “You’re joking right?” he asks, nipping at T’Challa’s bottom lip, “you think I’m gonna pass up this opportunity to have you a writhing and mewling mess under me? With your cute little ears pressed back and black tail in the air while you rut against-”

T’Challa snarls and pushes the other man away, hiding a wince when it causes the other’s hand to rip away from his tail too roughly.

“What?” Erik asks, his chest heaving, “thought you agreed to our terms?”

T’Challa grits his teeth, feeling them lengthen again but deciding to speak regardless of the risk of cutting up his lip again. “I am not a housecat,” he growls back, “I will fulfill your conditions because I have given you my word, but I will not be treated like a pet.”

He bares his fangs at the other man.

Erik watches him back with hooded eyes. “I like that,” the other man says at last, “stay feisty cuz. I always wanted to tame my own panther.”

T’Challa lets out another growl, “I have complied with my side of the bargain, will you hold true to your word?”

“Fine,” Erik sighs and moves over to the seats by the window, “have at it.”

This is going to go well.

 

\---

 

Unsurprisingly, it does not go well.

This is the third day of their proposed deal.

Three days of absolutely zero progress.

They are only an hour into today’s session and T’Challa is rapidly losing what little remains of his patience and sanity. “You can not think that inciting a war is the best course of action.”

“Who said war?” Erik snaps back, “we just need to provide sufficient resources so both sides are on equal footing.”

“Right,” T’Challa says dryly, “because it is a much better idea to distribute highly destructive weapons across the globe with no method of monitoring or instructions on how to best avoid casualties.”

“There will always be casualties,” Erik says darkly.

“So we must just accept it?” T’Challa demands, tail bristling with annoyance.

“And why are these casualties any different?” the other spits back.

“Because it is my duty as King to ensure the safety and proliferation of the tribes.”

“So the rest of us ain’t your people?” Erik asks, his voice suddenly quiet, but no less furious.

“I am King of Wakanda,” T’Challa repeats firmly, “I am not the King of all-”

“So we didn’t fucking have our roots on this continent? We didn’t share the same ancestors? The same blood?”

T’Challa glares, feeling an odd twinge in his eyes.

It feels as if the world was sharpening into minute relief.

“Oh fuck you,” says Erik, and leans over to press a hard kiss before he pulls away, “you don’t get to fucking get out of answering me by pulling your stupid panther shit.”

T’Challa stares at him, realizing with a faint sense of horror that over the course of the past few days, he’s been kissed so many times that he’s grown acclimated to the action.

He swallows down a sense of dread.

“I cannot place the livelihood of Wakanda at stake to provide aid to the world,” he starts, “and we are already helping-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Erik interrupts, “you don’t get to say you’re helping.”

“Wakanda has several ongoing projects to-” T’Challa continues heedless of the other’s words.

“You ain’t helping shit,” growls out Erik, “how can you be helping when there are still hundreds of thousands of people living below poverty? When there is violence in the streets and disparity of education?”

“It takes time to instigate change. Our efforts cannot help everyone.”

“And why not?” Erik asks, “why the fuck not when y’all have so much to spare?”

“Because there is a thing called vibranium,” T’Challa snarls back, feeling his ears press back, “and it is critical that it does not fall into the wrong hands as a result of ill-planned relief efforts on our part.”

“You’re fucking impossible,” Erik grunts at him, right before T’Challa is kissed again.

Except instead of a quick kiss like last time, Erik does not move away once they part for breath. Instead, T’Challa hisses in surprise when the other man moves out of his own chair to sit on T’Challa’s lap.

“I fucking hate you,” Erik mutters, even as his hands dig carefully into T’Challa’s hair and rub at the base of his new ears.

Which are apparently very very sensitive as well because T’Challa finds himself making an odd noise, not quite a purr and not quite a growl, and rock up against Erik’s warm weight.

“Shit,” Erik gets out in a shaky voice, “this get you off too, kitty?” He bends down to kiss T’Challa again, effectively preventing him from answering.

T’Challa feels his nerves light on fire when Erik scrapes a nail against the base of his right ear.

It feels like he licked a battery.

He clutches his hands into the other man’s thighs to steady himself and hears Erik groan, realizing belatedly that his nails had sharpened and are digging small crescents into the other man’s skin.

“Stop,” he gasps out, trying to disengage, heart pounding at the thought of hurting someone, even if that someone was Erik, because he couldn’t control himself.

“No,” Erik growls back and does a movement with his hips that should really be illegal, and grinds down on T’Challa’s very interested cock.

Erik must feel it too because he does that thing with T’Challa’s ear again and bites another harsh kiss to his mouth. Their tongues meet and lap at one another; it’s messy and rough and somehow incredibly arousing.

T’Challa does not know how they went from arguing to this, but he would be lying if he said he wants to stop now.

He feels the hard length of the other man’s cock against his stomach as Erik writhes against him, mouthing sharp kisses against his neck. T’Challa ruts back against the other man and would have continued to do so if Erik hadn’t somehow grasped a hold of his tail and stroked it hard, from base to tip.

T’Challa comes with a growl, eyes clenched and vision nearly blinding out to white.

“Bast,” he grits out and digs his claws into Erik’s thighs, and feels the vibration through his entire body when the other man groans and comes against his stomach.

“Fucking shit,” mutters Erik, “can’t believe I came in my pants like a fifth grader.”

T’Challa pants against the other man’s chest and thinks that that's really the least of their problems.

 

\---

 

It takes T’Challa another day before he finds the time to visit Zuri.

Part of which is due to the fact that it had taken him half a day to be able to meet other people’s eyes again after what he allowed to happen with Erik.

He nods politely at the other priests and priestesses as he makes his way into the cave.

“Zuri,” he says warmly, once the older man comes in sight. “May we speak?”

Zuri turns and peers at him for a moment before he nods, “of course my King.”

T’Challa frowns.

It is not like Zuri to be so formal.

But he stills his tongue and follows the older man as Zuri leads them into a smaller cavern, adorned by vines and a small but clear pool.

“I have been waiting for this,” Zuri says, shoulders slumped as he comes to stand by the pool.

T’Challa furrows his brow and walks forward until they are shoulder by shoulder. “For me to seek your counsel?” he guesses with uncertainty.

Zuri huffs out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh, “no. I fear you will not wish for my counsel after this.”

T’Challa listens quietly as Zuri details out that night in Oakland so many years ago, from the confirmation of his father’s involvement to the execution of the decision that would set Erik down the path he is on now, one which led him back to Wakanda, like a particularly vicious ghost from the past.

His world is turning upside down.

“Why?” he asks long after Zuri goes silent. He clenches his hands into fists and does not wince when his elongated nails dig into his palms.

He wants the pain to ground him because it feels like the cavern is spinning.

“Why did we not bring him home,” he elaborates when Zuri remains silent, “he was but a boy. He is our kin, they both are. He should have grown up a prince.”

Zuri lets out a long breath, “He was a truth that we chose to omit.”

T’Challa’s ears flick angrily.

“We should not have abandoned him.”

“No,” agrees Zuri, sounding tired, “but he was just a boy and weighed against the safety of all of Wakanda, the choice was clear.”

“You are wrong,” T’Challa says in a faint voice, even as he feels something cold and terrible grip his heart. He has heard these words before, has spoken nearly the same words to Erik the day before.

He feels sick.

“You are all wrong,” he growls out this time, feeling his tail curl protectively around his leg, “he was just a boy. And now, he is consumed by anger and vengeance, the only companions afforded to him because we turned our backs on him.”

Zuri says nothing.

“They were wrong,” T’Challa says after a beat, feeling his hands shake, “I will not be like them.”

“No,” Zuri agrees slowly, “you will not.”

 

\---

 

“You are sulking.”

T’Challa makes a face, “I am not.” His tail swishes once in support then settles back over his legs.

Nakia grins as she settles into a sitting position beside him. “Yes,” she agrees in a mockingly solemn manner, “that does not sound petulant at all.”

T’Challa nudges her for that comment.

“I was not aware you were back.”

“Arrived a few hours ago,” she replies easily, and gives him a teasing smile, “but I suppose being King has taken up your time so you could not see me land.” She raises her gaze to his ears thoughtfully, “or those, I suppose those may also take up some of your time.”

At the mention of his new appendages, T’Challa sighs.

Sensing the change in mood, Nakia gives him a side glance. “Is that what is troubling you?” she asks tentatively, then looks down, “or is it…” She trails off.

T’Challa winces.

She has heard about Erik then.

“Do you think Wakanda is doing enough for the world?” T’Challa says apropos of nothing, in lieu of answering her question.

She is silent for a moment. “I think we are doing more than we did in the past,” she replies, diplomatic as ever.

“But you do not think it is enough,” T’Challa concludes.

Nakia turns to observe him with her bright-eyed gaze, which would have caused him to flush in the past but causes nothing but a faint flutter in his heartbeat now.

T’Challa tries to still the panic in his chest at the realization.

“I think we can do more,” she says after another beat of silence, “there are many who do not have the same fortunes as us. Many struggle to move beyond their stations and not all have the resources or time to do so.”

T’Challa turns to look at her, but she is not watching him anymore, so he is left gazing at her side profile.

“There are children, who are forced into dangerous situations just to survive, and whose lives are lost because of where they were born.” Her words are picking up now, passion clear in her voice.

It reminds T’Challa of why he fell in love with her in the first place.

A flash of Erik’s face midst argument springs to mind and T’Challa balks internally.

“So what would you propose?” he asks, desperately ignoring the image and its implication.

Nakia hums. “Why not create outreach centers? Our technological advances could improve, if not save, lives.” She hesitates, “we do not need to open our borders, but we can at least lend more of a helping hand when so many are turning to isolationism.”

They sit quietly for a moment.

“I cannot be like Baba,” T’Challa confesses, “I cannot turn my back on the world when there is more we can do.”

Nakia looks surprised.

“I will take your counsel to heart and discuss it with the tribal elders,” he says.

She beams at him and T’Challa smiles back.

 

\---

 

Erik and T’Challa quickly establish a pattern.

They keep doing it.

Having sex that is.

And talking.

When their mouths aren’t too busy.

Erik is the only one T’Challa knows who can spout off international statistics on police violence, racist incidents and the shortfalls of local government programs aimed at addressing education, shelter and job assistance while giving someone a handjob.

Meaning T’Challa now finds himself uncomfortably aware when the topic of sending additional aid to current outreach programs comes up during council meetings.

Pavlovian training at work really.

Intentionally or not, all of Erik’s ill-advised statistics mean that focusing on council meetings now take on an additional level of difficulty.

T’Challa frowns to himself.

Knowing the other man, it is definitely intentional.

He stares at the door in front of him.

T’Challa is aware that Okoye is giving him the side eye, but he is unwilling to move just yet.

He has not told Erik that Wakanda is planning to expand its diplomatic presence across the world, especially in regions with the highest concentration of African descent citizens.

There has been no opportunity to do so.

Whenever he tries to broach the topic, Erik would cut him off and insist that outreach programs meant to teach and guide are useless.

And with each day, there is a bit more bite in the other man’s words during their discussions and a bit more desperation in the other man’s movements when they fuck.

It all serves to remind T’Challa that time is running out.

Erik may allow himself to stay on the sideline long enough to indulge in, whatever his fantasy is with T’Challa’s new ears and tail, but eventually, he will satiate himself and move on.

And then.

Then T’Challa will not know what to do because against all the ridiculous odds; he has come to like the man.

Because while Erik may be crude and have deplorable manners, he also has a good heart and misplaced but well-meaning intentions.

He is so incredibly intelligent and well informed that it seems a cruel twist of fate for him to be so jaded and hurt by the world, to the point where he thinks the only way to fix anything at all is through fire.

And he still fucks like he wants to fight, but he has never been rough again with T’Challa’s ears and tail, after the first time they realized that the borderline between pleasure and pain is very very thin.

All these little realizations make T’Challa hesitate.

He is uncomfortably aware that, every day that they fuck and every day that they talk, is another day closer to the end.

When Erik decides that the sexual fantasies he gets to indulge in are no longer adequate to justify the shackles he’s willingly taken on.

“My King,” Okoye says quietly, a gleam of something knowing in her eyes, “perhaps you can visit after the UN meeting.”

T’Challa gives her a half hearted smile. “Perhaps that is wise.”

He allows himself one last look at the door and walks away.

 

\---

 

The UN conference goes as expected.

That is to say, T’Challa makes his speech and is immediately interrogated about Wakanda’s ability to provide aid. He gazes calmly at the audience even as titters and cruelly meant chuckles are shared by the other countries’ delegates at his proclamation.

Wakanda cannot help the world.

But it also cannot do nothing while the world continues to descend into ruin.

He still does not believe that everyone of African descent is his brother or sister, but they do not have to be for him to offer aid.

He will not be like his Baba.

He cannot follow in the ancestral path because it is laid upon a bedrock of falsities and casualties.

He will be his own King.

And it all starts here.

 

\--

 

“You bored of this cuz?” is how Erik greets him after a week of absence.

T’Challa pauses at the door and stares at the other man; there is a sense of dread welling up in the bottom of his stomach.

“Are you bored?” he returns as he closes the door behind him.

“Maybe I am,” Erik growls, “as fun as this has been, it don’t change a thing does it?”

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

This is what T’Challa has been anticipating all along.

And yet.

Some small part of him had hoped that he had been getting through to Erik, as much as Erik has been getting through to him.

“You still wish to challenge me?” he asks quietly, reminiscent of the first time Erik and he spoke alone.

“It’s been weeks,” Erik mutters as he prowls forward, “I’ve been listening to you for weeks and you haven’t convinced me of shit. You still think outreach centers are enough when there is gun violence and racism?”

“War is not the solution,” T’Challa says firmly.

“Neither is inaction.” Erik’s eyes are hard.

“Outreach is not inaction.”

Erik snorts derisively, “Does the same amount of good.”

T’Challa watches Erik, feeling very much like he was observing a caged cat, one who has been itching to hunt.

He knows what his mother has said and what the council has murmured behind closed doors, he knows he should not indulge Erik.

But.

It is Erik’s birthright to challenge him for the throne.

His father has deprived the boy of his childhood, T’Challa cannot deprive the man of his path to the throne.

He will not be like the others.

“I accept your challenge.”

 

—-

 

T’Challa spends the next day in and out of meetings, and barely has enough time to grab lunch, much less keep tabs on Erik’s movements.

So it is a surprise when he walks into his chambers and finds the other man lounging regally on the sheets.

Instinct has his tail bristling and ears flattening in alarm before his eyes fully made sense of the scene, and even then, it took a moment for T’Challa to steady himself.

He has no idea how the other man managed to get into his room, but T’Challa suspects he will be getting reports about the other’s disappearance from his appointed guards shortly.

“Why are you here?” T’Challa asks, feeling oddly out of place in his own room, thrown as he is by the situation.

It is an unpleasant sensation.

“Thought I’d drop in,” Erik says, “didn’t I tell you that outreach is useless?”

“You did,” T’Challa agrees, “and I disagreed.”

Erik frowns at him, “so y’all went to the UN.”

“Yes,” confirms T’Challa.

“I saw the news this morning,” Erik mutters. He shakes his head, “You offered to share resources, and began restoring buildings in tough neighbourhoods to create shelters and education centres.”

“Yes.”

Erik presses his lips into a hard line.

“Y’all are wasting your time, outreach alone isn’t enough,” he says eventually. “You think a couple of nice centers here or there is going to magically cure discrimination? Police brutality?”

“No,” T’Challa says with a sigh, he is tired of this same argument. “Outreach is not the answer to everything, but Wakanda can no longer observe from the sidelines.”

He holds Erik’s gaze, “weapons are not the only thing that can empower the disadvantaged. Proper education and adequate resources will make a difference, even if it is not immediately evident.”

T’Challa hesitates, then adds gently, “there are ways to change the old customs without burning everything to ashes.”

“You think you can do better than your old man?” Erik asks with a sardonic twist to his mouth, but his words do not carry the same amount of bite as his usual diatribes.

“Not better,” T’Challa corrects, “my father did what he thought was best for Wakanda and the world, even if you should disagree.” He closes his eyes briefly, “but the world is changing, and isolationism will only breed more fear and dissent. Wakanda has much to share with the world if they are willing to listen.”

“No one will listen.”

T’Challa watches as a furrow appears between Erik’s brows. “No,” he says quietly as his ears press back, “I suppose that some people might not be willing to listen.”

Erik makes a frustrated sound and looks away. “But maybe war is also not the best way.”

T’Challa stills.

The other man continues on, trying for nonchalance. “Y’all need an advisor or something,” he says, “to figure out how to best reach out and ensure the communities accept the aid you’re providing and to build credibility with the kids.”

T’Challa’s ears swivel to the other’s direction. “Are you,” he asks faintly, “what are you saying?”

Erik glares at him.

“I’m saying I should be your advisor because any kid off the street is gonna take one look at your pretty little kitty ears and laugh their asses off.”

“And the challenge?”

“I’m postponing,” Erik says.

“Why?” T’Challa asks before he could stop himself.

“Maybe I just wanna keep tapping that ass,” Erik leers, then, when T’Challa stays quiet, he adds with a growl, “what do you want me to say? You haven’t convinced me that this is the most that Wakanda can do.”

T’Challa internally agrees but says nothing still.

“But you’re not,” Erik grits out, looking like every word pains him, “terrible.”

That startles a laugh out of T’Challa, and he feels his tail swish idly in contentment. “A high compliment indeed.”

“You’re just lucky you got that cute panther shit going for you,” grumbles Erik, but his hand is gentle when he reaches out to pet T’Challa’s tail.

Oddly enough, T’Challa thinks he might agree.

Maybe his panther features were a blessing from Bast after all, even if it took a whole day for Shuri to figure out how to project a hologram to hide them during diplomatic trips.

T’Challa smiles as Erik moves closer, allowing himself to purr quietly for the first time since the accident.

It is worth the teasing to see Erik’s startled but pleased expression.


	2. Extra Drabbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of [starawr's original tags](http://starawr.tumblr.com/post/172153817153/just-wanna-say-its-a-fucking-tragedy-that-no-one) :)

+1

Erik may or may not have a thing for catboys and catgirls.

He was briefly drawn into the anime craze back in his high school days, a fun indulgence before he realized he needed to devote more time to his studies if he wanted to go to a decent university.

Still, the brief exposure had given him an appreciation for sweetly tempered partners who would call him master and cater to his every whim. The ears and tail were a bonus.

It’s not a big deal or anything.

Not like he’ll ever meet one in real life.

Until he sees his damn cousin on the throne, with the cutest fucking cat ears and tail.

And Erik maybe blanks out for a second because what the fuck, T’Challa looks like he came straight out of one of Erik’s less innocuous fantasies.

Then he finds out the shit is real.

And apparently, very sensitive, judging by the look on his cousin’s face.

It’s a bit fucked up and weird, but Erik may or may not want to fuck the quiet confidence out of T’Challa.

Like, he wants to see the man dazed and covered in cum and loving it.

So he might pull on the other man’s tail a bit. 

Okay, a lot.

But only because it’s cute and he’s waited his whole life to get the throne and he can afford a few more days if only so he can indulge in this medical miracle.

Only.

T’Challa doesn’t end up just being a pretty face.

He knows a lot about foreign affairs, global issues, and international relations, as is befitting of a king. 

This means that arguing with the man is fun (even more so because Erik gets to see those adorable ears flick and press back). It’s even better to stroke them when they’re kissing, because T’Challa never fails to shudder.

So okay, they fuck.

And it’s hot.

Shit, T’Challa is nothing like the quiet complacent catboys Erik’s jerked off to in the past. Instead he’s a wild cat who scratches and bites even as he’s being fucked within an inch of his life.

It surprisingly does it for Erik.

And they fall into a rhythm.

But as hot as the sex is, it is not enough to occupy Erik during the day, when T’Challa is off doing his kingly duties.

And as the days go by, Erik begins to feel disgusted with himself.

He’s indulging himself a bit too much.

If they keep going, he might actually grow to like the other man.

Then the man goes away for a week on some diplomatic mission, which was intentionally phrased to be unhelpfully vague.

A week of being bored out of his mind nearly drove Erik mad.

So when T’Challa comes back, looking all fluffy and content, something in Erik snaps.

And he would almost regret breaking their comfortable routine if not for the fact that Erik knows that he has a greater calling.

So he issues the challenge.

Only, he finds out the next morning that T’Challa hasn’t just been letting his words go in one ear and out the other.

Erik feels himself frown as the video plays on.

But the happy kids on the screen don’t go away.

Neither do the newly renovated buildings.

And fuck, he hates T’Challa so much.

The bastard is ruining all his plans.

Because how can Erik go ahead with the challenge when T’Challa has effectively demonstrated that outreach can be impactful?

So fine.

Okay.

Erik’s smart.

He can see how the pieces fall and weigh his options.

And he picks the one that makes the most sense and does the most good for his brothers and sisters.

The fact that he gets to keep fucking T’Challa in exchange for indefinitely postponing his challenge rights is just icing on the cake.

  
  


 

\+ 2

“Erik,” says T’Challa, eying the toy mouse with trepidation, “why do you have that?”

“I thought you deserved a present,” Erik says breezily, tossing the toy up and down in his right hand.

Then he chucks the toy at T’Challa face.

Like the idiot that he is.

T’Challa catches it right before it smacks him on the nose.

Then he pauses.

He sniffs the toy.

There was something off about the-

“Did you,” he starts, feeling exasperation trickle into his voice, “is there catnip in this?”

Erik looks away shiftily. “No?”

There is a moment of expectant silence.

“Seriously? Not even a second sniff?”

T’Challa sighs. “If you had done your research,” he says dryly, “you will know that most bigger breeds are not affected by catnip.”

“Killjoy,” mutters Erik as he makes his way to the shower.

T’Challa shakes his head.

He stares down at the toy.

Then, making sure Erik really is not in the room, he gently raises the toy to his nose and sniffs again.

Nothing.

He rubs his cheeks against the toy, deciding that at least it was lucky that Erik had selected a soft fabric-

_ Click. _

He freezes.

“Erik.”

“T’Challa.”

“Give me the phone.”

“Opps, can’t cuz, it was on the kimoyo beads and Shuri hasn’t taught me how to delete photos yet.”

“Then let me show you,” T’Challa says, trying for calm.

“Nah, I think I got it,” Erik says, fiddling with his beads. 

He makes a faux-innocent face, “aw hell, I think I may have sent it to Shuri instead of deleting it.”

T’Challa sighs.

 

 

 

\+ 3

“You want me to what?”

“There is a lot of judgment and not nearly enough action.”

T’Challa frowns down at Erik, but when the other only stares evenly back at him, he closes his eyes and decides to go with it. He grabs hold of his tail and gently curls it around their cocks, and suppresses a hiss when a bolt of heat shoots up his spine.

Bast, his tail is way too sensitive and the combined sensation of his tail on his own skin is almost too much.

Erik groans, his gaze focused on his lap where T’Challa is slowly using his tail to stroke their cocks.

“Fuck,” Erik murmurs, “I don’t think I’m gonna last long.”

T’Challa makes a noise. His tail is slick now, covered in the lube that had been over their cocks, and it feels better than he could have imagined.

He leans down so he can pant into the other man’s ear, even as he strokes faster.

Erik groans quietly, “this doing it for you too huh, babe?”

And it’s ridiculous and stupid, but it’s the word babe that causes T’Challa to come, and he would feel embarrassed about it, but Erik’s never called him anything but cuz, kitty, your Highness or T’Challa before.

It’s nice.

He doesn’t even mind when Erik comes shortly after, getting it (likely on purpose) all over his already sticky tail.


End file.
